the coffin was made of cedar and so is your bed frame, but this time they are not the same thing. this time the dead girl stays in the right one and you fall asleep unhaunted. this time tomorrow keeps its hands to itself and yours don’t shake so much, yours don’t shake at all.

you love dialogue. classic movie manuscript soul, you lace your lips with elegance. you dance with passion and exhale with a lightness that brings spring to her knees. you hate human sheep’s philosophy, you’re terrified to be a wolf– lately the moon has been your tattoo. we listen to body language, we have been lied to on several occasions. how do you want to be admired? how deep are your thoughts? you are not bound to the earth, a red airy balloon waiting by venus, you lavish in pleasantries, but only if it’s done right. the rare definition of aesthetic, if it’s pretty enough to say, then it’s beautiful enough to be heard by you. how far would you go to regain your wings? angel thoughts. you’re a meteorological phenomenon, the one where rain falls in one spot. the sad parts of you scattered all over your tears, we love them until our hearts tear. where do you keep love? in the back pocket of a lucky guy, your version of ride or die– I’ll keep poetry close, but I’ll always keep your lips skin distance kind of love. you do it for fun, but you also do it because nothing is new under the sun. you love dialogue, our friendship in three words. you used to see your old lover within my poetry, a bit of my words will always belong to you. we may age, our skin will wrinkle some day, our hair will be grey, our vision will blind us, our bones will rattle, but this soul, my version of poetic justice buried into a rose, stained by blood into every fucking petal, inject my misery loves company into the damn thorns– will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful? age is nature’s brilliant plan to keep us in check. I love my youth, I love the fire in my eyes, the passion that keeps us from going too far– the thing about being this young is nothing is too dumb. no amount of hate will keep us from growth. you love lengthy prose poetry and I love that you read with intent to kill hearts until beating sounds like getting your first kiss every second of everyday– over and over and over again, until our smile matches the adrenaline, until the thorns prick a thousand lovers, until the last petal wilts from the lack of oxygen, until our lungs heave itself, it is a conversation of black holes and stars, I am stranded on mars and most days it’s unlivable, but these poems, my dialogue with you is a great way to understand the mystery of the universe.

a thinspo site uses my weight in the Before picture and i remember exactly when things hurt the most. the nights spent watching food network on the elliptical, learning to associate kitchens with burning legs. the middle school poetry about skeleton bodies. the smirks that always said you’re never going to be the thing you want to be. the wanting that always came back louder.